


Try

by IAmANonnieMouse



Series: Nash Fics for Flos [6]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, eames is a flirt, nash is insecure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27392647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: Nash steps into the shower and lets the water run down his skin. He breathes, and breathes again. He doesn’t know what’s happening anymore, but a small voice in the back of his head says it doesn’t matter, because Arthur and Eames will take care of it now. He doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.And that, Nash thinks, sounds really fucking wonderful.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception), Arthur/Eames/Nash (Inception)
Series: Nash Fics for Flos [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928443
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15





	Try

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/gifts).



> I told flos I'd write her a Nash drabble if she wanted, and then she prompted me a whole-ass fic. And because I can never say no to her, I wrote it. Shocking, I know.
> 
> This is basically the prequel to [Quiet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26064610) and [Speak](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27226033).

Nash is trying not to freak out, except that ship sailed ages ago, so he’s mostly trying not to _look_ like he’s freaking out.

He thinks he’s succeeding. Somewhat. Maybe.

He’s under right now with Arthur and Eames, letting them poke at his architecture, and he’s already preparing himself for the dressing-down Arthur’s going to give him. It’s the first job they’ve worked together since the Cobol disaster, and despite Arthur muttering something the first day about the fucking carpet, he’s been...a step down from murderous. 

Nash knows the only reason Arthur took the job was because Eames would be working it, too, so he’s trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s just going to keep his head down, research carpet fibers, and try not to piss Arthur off more than he already does by breathing.

He’s leaning against the wall outside a random office when Arthur and Eames emerge from the stairwell. Eames is grinning like a Cheshire cat, and Arthur’s cheeks are slightly pink under his ever-so-subtly disheveled hair.

Nash tries to act like he doesn’t notice these things. He fails.

“It’s,” Arthur says, grimacing, “acceptable.”

“It’s bloody brilliant,” Eames says. 

Nash nods and looks away, except his eyes catch on Eames’ hand wrapped possessively around Arthur’s waist, and his brain shorts out. Just a little.

“—topside to discuss the plan,” Arthur is saying when he focuses again. 

“Alright, you first, darling,” Eames says, and he kisses the barrel of his gun then presses it to Arthur’s forehead.

“You sap,” Arthur says, right before Eames pulls the trigger.

Nash blinks and turns away. He’s never going to get used to that sight, no matter how long he does this.

“Nash,” Eames says, voice low, and Nash looks up just as Eames smoothly slides into Nash’s personal space. 

Nash tries to back up, but there’s still a wall at his back, and Eames is a wall of heat at his front. 

“I have a question for you,” Eames says, placing a hand on the wall by Nash’s shoulder and resting his weight on it.

“Okay,” Nash says, but his voice is weak and it comes out as a question. He’s trying to find somewhere to look that is safe, because looking Eames in the eye feels like too much. 

Eames leans just a little closer and whispers, “Close your eyes,” and Nash gratefully lets his eyes slip shut. This is easier, somehow. One less thing for him to worry about.

“Hm,” Eames says, breath tickling Nash’s cheek. They’re so close he can almost feel the rasp of Eames’ stubble on his skin. “Perfect. So bloody perfect. Thank you, Nash.”

“For what?” Nash asks, then he feels the cold kiss of a gun against his temple, and then he’s awake.

*

Things are different after that. Arthur is several steps down from murderous, and Nash can feel Arthur watching him from across the warehouse during the day. Nash agonizes over his models, and Arthur looks over his shoulder and murmurs compliments into his ear.

Eames never asked his question, and Nash never answered. But things are suddenly moving a lot more smoothly for the job, and Eames keeps grinning at him and Arthur keeps complimenting him, and Nash doesn’t understand _why_.

The morning of the big day, Arthur leaves to knock out their mark in advance. He takes their chemist with him as a lookout, which leaves Eames and Nash in the warehouse alone.

Eames sidles up to Nash while he’s poring over his models one last time and leans heavily on Nash’s back, trapping him against the edge of the table.

“Nervous?” Eames asks quietly.

Nash shudders and, after a moment, lets his eyes slip shut. “A little,” he admits.

Eames hums and rests his forehead between Nash’s shoulder blades. “Just do as we say, and everything will be fine. You don’t have to worry about anything else.”

“Okay.”

“Just breathe.”

Nash breathes.

They stay like that for long moments, until Eames’ phone buzzes and it’s time for them to move.

*

After the job—the fucking _fantastic_ job where Nash’s architecture did exactly what it was supposed to do and trapped all the angry projections in a dead-end and Arthur actually _smiled_ at Nash and told him he did great, he did fucking _great_ and his work was _beautiful_ —after all of that, Nash lets Eames grip his wrist and pull him aside and hand him a business card for E.A. Mosely. It’s got a phone number and a street address, and Nash’s traitorous heart skips a beat or three because he has an idea of what this is, and it’s something he never expected to receive.

“If you want to talk,” Eames says, with just enough weight to his words that Nash knows he means something completely different, “Arthur and I would love to have you.”

Nash says, “Oh,” and, “Okay,” and, “Are you sure?” and Eames laughs and pats him on the shoulder and walks away without a second glance.

*

Nash forgets about the card for a while. Actually, that’s a lie. He forces himself not to obsess over the card for a while. He takes another job, and then another, and then the offers come pouring in as word hits the streets that The One and Only Arthur is willing to work with him and actually _endorses_ him.

And doesn’t that just make Nash feel like some product being placed in a Super Bowl Commercial.

But regardless, Nash works, gets paid, repeats, and tries to act like E.A. Mosely’s business card isn’t burning a hole in the bottom of his wallet every waking minute of every day.

And then Moscow happens, with Dietrich and Rollins, and Nash really should’ve expected getting fucked over in this line of work, especially after Cobol and Saito, but he really, really _didn’t_ , and the only reason he gets away is because Dietrich and Rollins decide to torture the extractor first.

The panic doesn’t hit until he’s in a dingy bathroom in God-knows-where, hacking off his hair and trying to think of what to do next. He’s panicking, hyperventilating in this dirty hole-in-the-wall, thinking he should’ve listened to his mother and just finished college, what the _fuck,_ and then, like magic, he remembers the card.

And maybe it isn’t the best idea, or the smartest idea, but Nash is scared and _tired,_ and God help him, he just wants Eames to press him against a table again and tell him that all he has to worry about is doing exactly as he and Arthur say. 

So he pulls out his newest burner phone. And he dials the number. And listens to it ring.

And ring.

And ring.

Until it isn’t ringing anymore, and the only ringing is in Nash’s ears as the line connects and Eames says, “What do you need?” and Nash tries not to collapse onto the dirty bathroom floor and cry, “Everything.”

*

It’s all a bit of a blur. Eames meets him at some abandoned lot not far from Nash’s grimy bathroom, then sneaks him through airport security and probably across several borders, but after they’re on a plane and in the air, Eames puts his hand over Nash’s eyes and says, “Sleep,” and Nash does.

He wakes up in another time zone, in another country. Eames guides him through the busy streets and up to a nondescript house on a nondescript corner. 

Arthur is waiting for them at the door.

He ushers Nash inside without a word, and Eames pulls off Nash's jacket as Arthur herds him to the bathroom. As Arthur starts the shower and tests the water, Eames gently strips Nash out of his clothes and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’ll clean that up for you when you’re out,” he says with a smile.

Arthur sighs and mutters something about coddling as he pulls Nash away from Eames and guides him into the shower. But he gently tangles his fingers in Nash’s chopped-off hair as he cups the back of Nash’s neck, and Nash doesn’t know what to think. 

“Is the water warm enough for you?” Arthur asks.

Nash nods.

“Towels are here when you’re done,” Eames says, as if his partner — boyfriend? — isn’t feeling up a naked man in their shower. “I left some clothes for you, too.”

“Take your time,” Arthur says, and he and Eames leave, taking their warmth with them.

Nash steps into the shower and lets the water run down his skin. He breathes, and breathes again. He doesn’t know what’s happening anymore, but a small voice in the back of his head says it doesn’t matter, because Arthur and Eames will take care of it now. He doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.

And that, Nash thinks, sounds really fucking wonderful.

*

They don’t ask him what happened. They don’t ask him what he plans to do next. They just feed him and put him up in the guest room and tell him to get some rest.

Nash lies awake for hours, letting the adrenaline run through his system. Later that night, he hears Arthur and Eames talking, low enough that he can’t make out the words. He falls asleep to the rhythm of their voices, and doesn’t wake up until morning.

When he stumbles into the kitchen, Arthur nods at him and says, “I’m making eggs. Want some?”

Nash’s stomach growls loudly in response.

Eames arrives just in time to steal Arthur’s portion of eggs and coffee, and he playfully pins Arthur to the counter when Arthur tries to push him away.

Nash smiles and deliberately doesn’t stare and tries not to remember how Eames had pinned him in the exact same way, on the morning of their job way back when.

He fails.

“You’ll stay here with us,” Arthur says later, when the food is long gone and Nash is doing the dishes because it seems rude not to. 

Nash says, “Oh,” and, “Um,” and, “I couldn’t,” and Eames smirks and says, “It wasn’t a question.”

So Nash stays.

*

Days turn to weeks in the blink of an eye, and suddenly it’s been a month and Nash is still here, with Arthur and Eames. Staying. It’s strange, but only because Nash doesn’t feel out of place. He’s slotted himself into their life, their home, and he doesn’t know how he’ll ever leave.

Arthur’s been away on a job for the last ten days, and Eames is wearing a hole in the carpet with all his pacing. 

“He should be home by now,” he says, checking his phone again. “The job ended yesterday.”

“He’s okay,” Nash says. “He’s Arthur.”

Eames shakes his head and says, “He’s human.”

Two hours later, Arthur still isn’t home and he hasn’t sent word. Eames has worn himself out with his pacing and is sitting on the couch, fidgeting. Nash puts away the last of the dishes and wipes down the kitchen counters, and then the stove, and then the fridge. But he inevitably runs out of surfaces to clean, so he slips into the living room and sits on the couch at Eames’ side.

“He’ll be okay,” Nash says quietly, eyes fixed on his own knees. 

“I’ll burn down the world if he isn’t,” Eames says simply.

Nash wants to offer comfort, but he doesn’t know how to do it. He peeks at Eames out of the corner of his eye and leans a little closer, tentative, questioning, but almost immediately pulls away, certain he’s overstepping.

But Eames’ nimble, thieving fingers grab his wrist before he can escape, and he pulls Nash closer, until Nash’s chest is pressed to Eames’ arm and Nash’s eyes are so low they might as well be closed.

Eames hums and tightens his grip on Nash’s wrist and says, “Close your eyes,” and Nash obeys. “So bloody perfect,” Eames whispers, just like he had in the dream, when he caged Nash in against a wall with only his body and his words.

“What do you need?” Eames asks, and Nash hesitates, his thoughts scattering. What does he need? What is the right thing to say?

“Breathe,” Eames says, lips brushing Nash’s temple. “Don’t think. Just speak.” He trails kisses down the curve of Nash’s jaw, then up his throat to his ear. Nash sits there, eyes closed, wrist caught in an iron grip, and lets his mind go blank. “What do you need?”

The words come easily this time, sliding easily off his tongue. “Whatever you want.”

“Very, very good,” Eames murmurs, and he bites at the hinge of Nash’s jaw just as the front door slides open and Arthur calls, “It’s me.”

Eames pulls away just enough to say, “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Nash starts to open his eyes, but a hand covers them, silently ordering him to keep them closed. Nash hears footsteps, then a soft breath, and Arthur says, voice low and hot, “I can see that.”

A slimmer hand than Eames’ wraps around Nash’s throat, and he’s pulled into a devouring kiss that has him whining and panting for breath. Eames is still a presence at his side, holding Nash’s wrist hostage and nipping at Nash’s ear and shoulder. 

“Bedroom,” Arthur says, when Nash’s head is spinning and his chest is heaving. Nash is pulled to his feet, Eames’ hand still pressed over his eyes, and led through the house, until the hardwood under his feet turns to softer carpet. Then a hand is pressing on his shoulder, and Nash slides slowly, if not gracefully, to his knees.

This time, he keeps his eyes closed without hesitation.

There’s a rustle of fabric, the brush of feet on carpet. A hand cups the back of his neck and tangles in his hair, while another hand traces patterns over his shoulders. 

“Fucking gorgeous,” Arthur mutters. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Eames hums, and nimble fingers unbutton Nash’s shirt. “Up,” Eames says, and Nash stands, letting Eames and Arthur guide him. His back hits a mattress moments later, and a warm body settles on top of him. 

“Hands,” Arthur says, pulling Nash into another bruising kiss. Nash offers up his hands without a second’s hesitation and moans as Arthur drags them over his head and pins them to the mattress.

“If you want us to stop at any point,” Eames says, “open your eyes. Understand?”

Nash nods, then a finger hooks under his chin and tilts his head to the side. “But for now,” Eames says, as their lips brush, “just relax, okay? Let go, and just do as we say. You don’t have to worry about anything else.”

And Nash keeps his eyes closed and relaxes and doesn’t worry about anything else for the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Flos is absolutely using her fic wives to fill up that good ol' Arthur/Eames/Nash relationship tag, but lucky for her, we're happy to do it! :blows kisses:
> 
> (Also don't be surprised if an Arthur POV of missing scenes from this shows up at some point. Maybe.)


End file.
